Wobbly
by the ramblin rose
Summary: Caryl, AU. Oneshot. Daryl is determined to learn to ride a bike. Rating for some Dixon language.


**AN: This is just a one shot that was inspired by therealsonia that wanted "bike path" as a fic. It's just for entertainment value. That's all. So don't take it too seriously.**

 **I own nothing from the Walking Dead.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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There were some things that you were supposed to learn to do when you were young and flexible and your mind was designed to learn because learning new things was your brain's primary occupation. There were some things that you were meant to learn under the careful and loving guidance of a father or mother—or at least of someone who cared about you enough to want to gently guide you through some rite of passage that just seemed to be necessary for you to transition successfully into adulthood.

Daryl had never learned any of those things. And, other than a big brother whose idea of "gentle" was practically dragging him around by the hair of his head, he'd never had anyone to "guide" him through anything. His brother, Merle, dragged him over any hump that threatened to stop him from going forward, but for anything else Daryl only had himself to rely on.

Daryl could ride a motorcycle. He'd been riding a motorcycle since Merle got his first one third or fourth-hand when he was fifteen. He'd started his experiences by riding bitch on the back of Merle's bike, but he'd been fascinated with it to the point that Merle had let him have the damn thing when he upgraded to a better one. Somehow, Daryl had taught himself how to balance the bike and how to ride—dropping the piece of junk more than once in the process—and then he'd gotten his license to do it legally.

But he'd never learned to ride a bicycle.

Most people assumed that, because he could ride a motorcycle, Daryl could ride a standard bicycle. Most people assumed that, because he'd spent much of his life riding motorcycles, he must have spent his childhood pedaling here and there on a bike like most of the other kids around him.

The truth was that he never had a bike. The kids in his neighborhood all had bikes, and he would run along with them and pretend that he did too, but it was always only make believe. Merle had never had a bicycle either. As far as Daryl's parents were concerned, they were an unnecessary expense—most of what Daryl and Merle wanted or needed were unnecessary expenses.

Daryl had promised himself for years that he was going to learn to ride a bicycle. At this point in his life it wasn't really a necessary skill—and there certainly wasn't peer pressure anymore to do it—but it was simply something he wanted to check off his lifelong to-do list.

The bike he got was pretty old and had probably had a number of previous owners. He picked it up at a yard sale in the fall. He hid the thing in his garage for months and tinkered with it. He bought a new chain to replace the rusted one. He got a good set of tires off a buddy of his who thought he'd had the thing for years and was just looking to bring it back to life. He bought a new seat for it that looked like it would sit better than the one that the bike had come with, even if he had no idea if he'd ever ride the damn thing again once he learned to stay upright on it and get it moving from one location to another. He oiled everything that moved on the bike until it did its moving with a smooth and easy motion.

He did everything he could possibly do with the bike—except try to ride it—for months.

Just having it there to look at in the corner of his garage—covered over with a tarp so it wouldn't draw the attention of his brother if he should come over – gave Daryl an odd sense of pride and accomplishment. He'd always wanted a bicycle. He'd coveted the nicely painted bicycles of the kids he grew up with—with their discussion of their bicycles' particular features not that different from the motorcycle bragging he heard later in life—and now he had his own.

It wasn't nicely painted, had some pretty rusted up parts, and didn't have any bells and whistles, but it was Daryl's.

It was _his_ bicycle.

And maybe he put off trying to ride it for so long because he feared he would fail at it. Maybe he put it off because he worried that it was one of those thing that, not learned early enough, would be impossible to learn.

Maybe he put off riding it because he feared that finding out that he simply couldn't do it would be a disappointment that he really wasn't prepared to handle.

But, by the first nice weekend of summer, Daryl thought he might be ready. He uncovered the bike, cleaned it up, checked the pressure in the tires, and loaded the thing in the back of his truck. He knew there was a park, not too far outside of town, that had a paved bike path and was rarely ever packed with people. That's where he was headed with a whole Saturday ahead of him.

Daryl was finally going to learn to ride his bicycle.

His enthusiasm, however, didn't last quite as long as he'd hoped it might. The place wasn't crowded, at least, and that meant that there really wasn't anyone he knew around to witness his humiliation. He'd tried at least ten times to steady himself on the bike and every time he'd ended up on the ground even if he'd covered a little more or a little less distance each time. The ground he was covering, easing down the bike path, wasn't owing to his skill as much as it was simply owing to the fact that his attempts at pushing off were carrying him some distance before he was on his hands and knees inspecting his palms for gravel.

He couldn't figure out how it could be so damn hard to get everything going at once. He could ride a motorcycle. He was pretty damn good with his hands. He'd taught himself a pretty decent amount of shit before.

But after the twelfth or thirteenth time he hit the ground, Daryl was just about ready to give up and leave the bike right where he was on the path. He decided to give it one more go—the last one—and he walked the bike around a curve that was just ahead of him. He couldn't ride the thing in a straight damn line so he was pretty sure he couldn't handle a curve. Coming out on the other side of the curve there was a little hill and a kid down below that was wobbling around on her bike. The kid didn't matter much to him because he figured, true to his previous experiences, he'd more than likely bust his ass long before he got close enough to her to even draw her attention.

Daryl got back on the bike, kicked off with his feet, and tried to search out the pedals. Finding the pedals wasn't working out for him, but his balance on the small frame and the thin tires was getting better. The bike picked up momentum from the hill and Daryl kept his balance, though he was still failing at getting his feet on the pedals that kept banging him in the shin since they insisted on moving as the bike rolled along and picked up speed.

When he fell of this time, he could already tell, it was going to be the worst damn fall he'd taken all day.

Except Daryl never fell.

At least, he never fell in the same way that he'd fallen all those times before.

As he rolled down the hill, he closed distance between himself and the little girl. His lack of expertise with the bike was more and more apparent to him as he rolled, because he realized that he hadn't quite mastered steering yet—or rather, in a panic, he hadn't quite mastered getting his hands to work for him while his feet were still searching out the pedals that were his only source of brakes.

At the last minute he'd yelled to the little girl to look out, but he wasn't sure if she'd even heard him. Out of nowhere a linebacker with a grudge appeared and slammed into him. The force that the asshole used was enough that it threw Daryl, bike and all, completely out of the path of the little girl. And then, to add insult to _actual_ injury, the human bowling ball had the audacity to land on top of Daryl in the pile of their creation.

"What the fuck!?" Daryl yelled, shoving back at the person even as they scrambled to get off of him.

"I'm sorry," the woman said.

A woman.

It had been a woman that had hit Daryl with what had felt like the force of a truck. Backing off of him and finding her feet, he could see that she was a small woman at that. She had, apparently, tackled him with every ounce of force in her body. She reached out a hand to try to help him up, her chain of apologies repeating over and over, and Daryl pushed her hand away.

"You tackled me!" Daryl yelled at her, finally finding his own feet. He ignored the desire to examine his hands, knees, and thigh—all burning from the fall despite the denim that was protecting half of them—and glared at the woman.

"You were headed right for my—for my daughter," the woman said. "And—it didn't look like you had very good control of the situation."

"So you helped by slamming me on the ground, lady?!" Daryl responded. His anger was already starting to wane a little, though, especially now that he saw the little girl had abandoned her own bicycle to watch them both with a great intensity.

The little girl almost looked like she might cry—and her contorted face looked very out of keeping with the mood that her helmet, covered in smiling daisies, was trying to convey.

"I didn't know how else to stop you," the woman said.

Daryl only noticed, then, that she was pressing her own hands into her legs in an odd way. Not like she was wiping them as much as she was simply holding them there. It didn't take long for him to realize that she'd skinned her own palms in the fall—and probably her knees too—but she wasn't any quicker to draw attention to it than Daryl was.

But her daughter saw it. Daryl caught the little girls eyes watching her mother's every movement. Her eyes flitting back and forth, she was watching Daryl too. She was watching how he was going to handle the situation with her mother.

Daryl sighed.

"Don't worry about it," Daryl said. "Look—I'm sorry I almost hit your kid."

The woman's shoulders dropped a little. Something like a hint of a smile came to her lips.

"I'm sorry I pushed you down," she said. "You're bleeding but—I've got a first aid kit. Extra Band-Aids. Just in case. I could—I could clean that up for you."

Daryl cleared his throat.

"Don't mean to alarm you," he said. "But—I ain't the only one that's bleeding."

The woman looked at her hands like she hadn't realized that they were injured.

"I can still patch you up," she offered. "Please? At least—let me make up for it that way?"

Daryl glanced at the little girl who was still watching them. He looked at his hands. They were actually pretty chewed up from his morning's efforts.

"You didn't do all this," Daryl said. "But—sure. If it'll make you feel better."

The woman offered him a broader smile.

"It'll make me feel better," she said. "Come on, it's over here. I've got a nice little—a nice place in the shade. We can sit for a minute." She directed her attention, then, at the little girl. "Sophia? It's OK, sweetheart. You can keep riding."

Sophia, as Daryl had now learned the little girl was called, hesitated a moment but then went back to her bike. Within a second she was back on it and wobbling around some more. She wasn't a pro by any standards, but she was doing better than Daryl could say he was. Her feet were on her pedals and she could steer. That already put her lightyears ahead of Daryl.

Daryl glanced at his bike and decided to leave it where it was. He followed the woman over to her blanket by the side of the path and sat down while she rifled through her bag and came out with enough first aid equipment to have convinced him that she ran a small clinic.

"You a nurse?" Daryl asked.

"No," the woman said. "Not exactly. But—I've dappled enough in first aid that I do OK with the minor things. I'm Carol."

"Daryl," Daryl offered in response, watching her open a bottle of rubbing alcohol.

"This is going to burn," she offered.

Daryl laughed to himself at the warning, but it didn't mean that he could keep from flinching entirely as she cleaned the wounds on his hands. In response to his hissing, she leaned her face close to him and blew her breath across his palms to cool the stinging.

He'd always heard about people blowing on injuries—but he'd only ever blew on his own, though, and it didn't seem to have the same effect as what she was doing right now.

Daryl only realized he was studying her perhaps a little too intently when she made eye contact with him and offered him a soft smile.

"I have bandages with flowers on them," Carol said. "And I have plain ones. Which ones do you prefer?"

"I could pull off the flowers," Daryl said. "But—I think I'd rather have the plain ones."

Carol nodded her head at him.

"I thought so," she said. "But—I thought I'd ask."

She covered his palms with bandages and then Daryl watched as she dabbed at her own left hand with an alcohol soaked pad she held in her right. He swallowed and reached, catching her hand enough to take the pad. She looked at him like she was surprised.

"Least I can do," he offered. She offered her hands over to him to be cleaned and bandaged. Following suit, he blew on her palms when he noticed her grit her teeth against the sting of the alcohol. "She's pretty good on that bike," he said, trying to make some sort of conversation—something he never felt really good at.

"It's her first time riding," Carol said, some pride in her voice. "We've been out here since just about the time the sun came up. I promised her we'd come today and she hardly slept all night. I guess—maybe she's a little old to be just learning but...her father never thought it was worthwhile."

"Where's he?" Daryl asked, his stomach doing an odd sort of summersault that it hadn't asked permission to do.

"Gone," Carol said. "I mean—I guess I'm the one that's really gone now. I left him. Divorced him. It's been final about—six months now?"

"I'm sorry," Daryl offered, not really sure what one was supposed to say about the failed marriage of someone.

"Don't be," Carol said. "I waited too long if I'm being honest. But—he's gone now. And today? Today is Sophia's first day of riding a bike. I got it for her birthday present."

Daryl smiled to himself.

"Good birthday gift," he said. "She's good at it. Especially—for being new to it."

"Even if it's a little late," Carol offered.

"Better late than never," Daryl said.

"They say you're never too old to learn something, right?" Carol offered.

"Flowers or—just plain?" Daryl asked, thankful to find something he could use to steer the conversation away.

"Plain," Carol said.

Daryl carefully bandaged up the woman's delicate hands. They were soft and cool in his hands. He liked the feeling of them, though he knew that it would be an odd sort of thing to say to someone.

To be honest, he really wasn't sure what you were supposed to say to women at all. That was more his brother's area of expertise. This was the closest he'd even been to a woman—who didn't work customer service somewhere—in over two years. Even then, he hadn't been very good at anything relating to the women that he'd been around.

He let go of her hands the moment that he realized he was unnecessarily holding them too long. She offered him another of the small smiles and thanked him for putting the bandages on her—like it had really been anything worth thanking someone for. Technically he'd caused her injuries just as much as she'd caused his.

"Were you having some trouble with your bike?" Carol asked.

Daryl frowned and looked at it lying on the ground. It felt like the hunk of metal had betrayed him.

"The damn thing just—I just can't ride it," Daryl said. He shrugged his shoulders and felt the heat in his face. "Maybe it's not true. You _can_ be too damn old to learn something new."

Carol didn't look at him with the judgment he expected, though she did look at him with a furrowed brow.

"You never learned to ride?" She asked. Daryl shrugged his shoulders. He didn't feel like he wanted to answer that question any other way. "You never wanted to learn or..."

Daryl nodded his head in the direction of Sophia.

"Better late than never," he offered. When he glanced back at Carol, she'd dropped her eyes toward her picnic blanket and he almost wished he hadn't said anything at all. He started to apologize to her, even as she got up from the blanket—probably to tell him it was time for him to go—and she ignored his apologies. He got to his feet and watched as she walked to his bike and picked it up.

She held it beside her by the handle bars and Daryl noticed that Sophia stopped riding in her wobbly circle to watch them.

"Ride over there, Sophia," Carol said, gesturing away from them. "It's fine, sweetheart. Go ride over there."

Daryl's stomach did another of the little rolls as the girl watched them a moment before she followed her mother's instructions. She was very protective of Carol. It was natural for Carol to be protective of her daughter—but Daryl had a feeling about what might make a daughter so protective of her mother. It didn't sit right on his stomach. He didn't know what to say about it, though. He didn't know if it might be better to just not say anything at all.

He reached to take the bike from Carol. He thanked her for picking it up. She didn't let go of it, though.

"Get on," Carol said.

"I think I'm giving it up," Daryl said.

"Get on," Carol said again.

"I think I'm done, thanks," Daryl said.

"If there's anything I've learned," Carol said, "it's to know when to give up and when to get back on. Now's the time for getting back on."

Daryl almost laughed at her. Her expression, though, had become stern enough that he felt he shouldn't. He felt like he couldn't argue, either.

He got on the bike and he pushed off with his feet, sending himself rolling forward, and went in search of the pedals. Carol jogged beside him a few steps and reached out, catching him this time instead of sending him to the ground.

"What was that?" She asked. Daryl stood, once again, with his feet flat on the ground.

"Kicking off," Daryl said. "Getting moving?"

"Kick off with one foot on the pedal. Here," Carol said. She reached down and turned the pedal until it was in what she deemed a good position. "Put your foot there, use it to push yourself forward. You've already got the balancing part down. You just have to get it to keep going. Push off with that foot and then? Catch the other pedal. You can hold it still with this foot until you do. Then you're off. Simple as that."

Daryl laughed to himself.

"If it was so damn simple I wouldn'ta spent half the day falling on my face," Daryl said.

"Maybe it's not the skill you're lacking," Carol said. "Maybe it's the confidence. Just try it my way. If you fall? I'll give you another Band-Aid."

She gave him a smile that was almost evil.

And Daryl liked it.

He liked it enough that it was, honestly, worth falling on his face one more time just to know that he hadn't disappointed her by simply not trying at all.

On his first try, he did catch the pedal. He wobbled a little, but he did manage to peddle before he fell. The fall wasn't as hard and complete as before. He caught himself before he fully hit the ground.

The second try found him a little surer of himself as Sophia rode along, at the other side of the path, beside him, and Carol jogged after them both.

The third try and he picked up enough momentum to leave Carol behind, though Sophia kept up, and Daryl made his first successful turn to head back in her direction.

He wasn't even sure if he was smiling—but Carol was. She was smiling at him wide enough that her cheeks had to at least ache a little from the effort. She clapped for him as he stopped the bike roughly.

"Next we work on braking," Carol said. "But—that'll have to be another day. Sophia and I didn't have any lunch yet so—we need to go get something to eat."

"Mama..." Sophia whined, realizing that the announcement ended her biking fun.

"Tomorrow," Carol said. "Tomorrow we'll come back and you can ride some more. And—if Daryl comes? We'll work on braking." Carol looked at him then. "And if you don't, no hard feelings. You'll figure it out. You know what you're doing now. You just have to—get over being wobbly. But practice does that."

Practice, it seemed, and facing fears could conquer just about anything. Apparently, Daryl wasn't too old to learn something new after all. He had a strange sense of pride and, even, some confidence over his newfound, although shaky, ability to ride a bicycle.

And as long as he was doing new things, he might as well not stop now. Falling, after all, only hurt for so long if he failed entirely and landed flat on his face.

Daryl cleared his throat.

"What if—I was to ask you out?" Daryl asked. "To lunch?"

Carol furrowed her brow.

"You mean like a date?" She asked. As Daryl was nodding his head, she was already shaking hers.

"Well a date with Sophia coming along," Daryl said. "If that's a date—I don't know what really a date has to be..."

"I don't know," Carol said. "I've only been divorced six months and—I never really even dated that much before...and..."

"You're wobbly?" Daryl asked, laughing to himself.

Carol seemed struck, but that quickly melted into amusement.

"Yeah," she said. "I guess—I'm a little wobbly."

"Me too," Daryl said. He cleared his throat. He could only hold out for so long before the anxiety he was doing his best to choke down came up to try to suffocate him. He was trying to get through this before it took over and made him use his newfound skill to simply ride away from her as quickly as he could—regretting it with each turn of the pedals. "Smart person told me once, though, that practice takes care of the wobbly."

Carol sucked in her bottom lip and glanced toward her daughter—the little girl hadn't broken from watching them the whole time.

"I'm a single mother," Carol said.

"That mean you gotta order something different for lunch?" Daryl asked.

Carol rolled her eyes in his direction and then looked back at the girl.

"You want to eat lunch with Daryl today?" Carol asked.

Daryl glanced at Sophia. The girl had kept up with him when they'd been riding together. He felt that had to be a sign of some sort of solidarity. He nodded his head at her.

"All that pedaling, you gotta be hungry," Daryl said. "Might be some ice cream in there too—if your Ma'll let you. Celebrate—you know—learnin' to ride?"

Daryl's offer won Sophia's allegiance at least temporarily. And it was easy to see that Carol was quickly won over by her daughter.

She sighed and nodded her head.

"Let me get my stuff," Carol said. "But only on one condition."

Daryl raised his eyebrows at her and hummed in question.

"I'll walk back to the cars," Carol said. "But you and Sophia? You ride ahead of me. But—not too far."

"Keep riding?" Daryl asked. "That's your condition?"

"Sophia wants to keep riding," Carol pointed out. "And—riding will get rid of the wobbly. Besides you have to want to be good at it to be good at it—I want to see how dedicated you are to it."

Daryl swallowed. He suddenly wasn't entirely certain that they were still talking about riding the bicycle. But he realized that it didn't really matter.

He nodded at her, repositioned his pedal since he hadn't learned to start off without it in the proper position, and looked over at the little girl.

"You ready?" He asked. "All the way to the parking lot?"

Sophia looked at Carol.

"I'll be right behind you," Carol assured her, already gathering up her things and stuffing them into her oversized bag.

"Let's go," Sophia said, offering Daryl a grin that showed she was missing at least two teeth. She kicked off and started ahead of him. Daryl found his pedal and started his own progress forward, not far behind her, while Carol walked behind them at a leisurely stroll and watched them wobble along up the path.


End file.
